“Here we are,” Georgia said as she and Lennon came to a stop at a gray apartment door on the fourteenth floor of her building.

In the two days since she’d had coffee with him, she’d been uncharacteristically busy with things that weren’t related in the slightest to medicine. On the way back to her apartment on Saturday, she’d called William Kessler, the head of the property management company that looked after her family’s portfolio of property, to ask if any of the rental units in her building were free.

She’d been correct. There had been two. The first had been in desperate need of renovation after a tenant who had lived there for twenty-seven years had died in it. The second had just received its final coat of paint. As a member of the board, and William’s goddaughter, she’d asked him to call in every favor he knew to furnish the place.

Then she’d gone on an online shopping spree to find every imaginable gadget for someone in his position and ordered a truckload of food.

Finally, with Lennon’s dressing change schedule in hand, she’d promised to personally change his bandages every two days except during her brief trip to a hospital in Mexico.

They pushed the door open, and she was disappointed to find there was still a lingering smell of paint in the air. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve had the window open for the last couple of days to air this out.”

“It’s fine.” Lennon stepped inside and tugged on the brass luggage cart they’d used to bring his belongings up in the elevator. He winced in pain, just as he had when he’d tried to load part of his drum kit into the back of her brother’s Range Rover. But she wasn’t going to do anything to stop him.

He had to find his limitations for himself. Seeing him try to do everything gave her hope that he wasn’t giving up. At least, not yet.

“So, what do you think?” she asked as she watched him look around the large open-plan room. It had been a Herculean effort to furnish the three-thousand-square-foot space. Two large gray sofas dominated the living area in front of the fireplace. Ceiling-to-floor silver drapes hung along one wall that also featured double doors out onto a balcony that shared her apartment’s view of Central Park. White walls reflected hues of pink and orange, the last of the mid-April sun for the day.

Tiny beads of perspiration dotted Lennon’s upper lip, a sure sign that either exertion or pain was getting the better of him. Given that his right hand went to grab the arm that wasn’t there, he was likely experiencing phantom pain. She wanted him to trust her enough to be honest with her, but she knew it was too early for that.

Lennon turned to look at her, something she noticed he was doing more frequently, if only fleetingly. “Thanks for setting this up,” he said gruffly. He’d tucked the sleeve of his hoodie into the pocket, she noticed. He was quiet today. Distant. It was to be expected as he processed the life changes ahead of him. Suddenly living alone had to be incredibly daunting. And they’d barely touched on discussing the many concerns he had to have.

“Let me show you around,” she said, stepping ahead of him. “There are two bedrooms and bathrooms off this hallway from the kitchen. So if any of your friends from the band come to town, you could put at least one of the couples up.”

Lennon shrugged. “They’ll stay in hotels. Like I could have done.”

Georgia turned on her heel and took hold of Lennon’s hand. She tried to ignore how right it felt, how that hum of vibration that she’d felt before was even stronger now that they were connected. Lennon’s eyes flared in response, but she couldn’t tell if it was appreciation or frustration.

“As a medical practitioner, I hated the idea of you dealing with this in a hotel room with no support network around you. As a friend, all I can tell you, Lennon, is that you’ll heal faster if you are home, and secure, and loved. I’m not going to pry as to why you don’t want to go home to those men who clearly love you, but I’d be dammed if I didn’t try to persuade you to let me be there for you instead.”

Lennon closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the ceiling. He looked like he was fighting tears. His fingers tightened around hers, his thumb rubbing over the top of hers.

She was terrified of moving, terrified of saying anything that would ruin this honest show of emotion.

A part of her wanted to pull him close, hold onto him for however long he needed.

But she didn’t. She simply stood where she was, his fingers crushing hers, letting him take what he needed from her.

Lennon coughed gruffly. “So, two bedrooms. Check,” he said, as he let go of her hand and glanced into the room she’d set up for him in shades of gray and teal with a California king bed to accommodate his height. “What else?” When he looked back toward her, his eyes were red, but no tears were spilled.

And just like that, the moment was over. He walked back into the open-plan area, and she followed.

Brightness. Levity. She wished she was better at both as he went ahead of her. “Here’s the kitchen.” She yanked open the double doors of the refrigerator. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I stocked a bunch of super-easy foods, precooked meals, fresh soups, and ready-made salads, that kind of thing. Beer and wine in the door there.” Without the prosthetic he’d shown no interest in accepting, he’d have a hard time managing simple cooking tasks, like getting hot pizza out of the oven. Many of those everyday skills would return eventually, but for the rest of his life every task would require adaptation.

“Thank fuck,” he said, reaching for a beer. He popped the top using a bottle opener she’d had screwed onto the side of the fridge.

Damn, she hadn’t considered alcohol would be the first thing he’d reach for. “You have to be careful with any meds you take.”

“I’m a grown-up, Gia,” he snapped. “And I’m pretty sure I deserve a beer after all that time in the hospital.”

She didn’t know whether to be frustrated by his comment or sigh a little in happiness at the way he’d shortened her name.

“Sorry. I’m a doctor. I can’t help myself. Of course, you can do whatever you like.”

Lennon drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter, watching them intently, as though he expected them to disappear. “Sorry, too,” he said, finally looking up at her. “Long week.”

She placed her hand on his back and rubbed gently. She could feel the muscles undulating beneath her fingertips. “Why ‘Gia’? Nobody has ever shortened my name that way. George. Georgie. But never Gia.”

He studied her for a moment, his faint line between his brows. “It was all I could see of your badge,” he said quietly.

“My badge?” she asked, as he placed his hand on her upper arm. His palm was warm and felt better than it probably should.

“When you knelt down next to me on the bus, ‘Gia’ was all I could make out on your badge, Doctor Georgia Starr. You’ve been Gia to me since the moment I first saw you.”

She knew her lips opened, her mouth even moved to form words, but she couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Will you have a drink with me?” he asked, stepping away from her and breaking their connection. “Stay for dinner? Apparently, I do a great line in frozen dinners and ready-to-eat salad.”

Relief raced through her. She couldn’t imagine leaving him alone without support. “I will on one non-negotiable condition.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up into the makings of a smile. “What’s that?”

“You let me help you get set up first. It’s only five o’clock, and it’s bothering me that all your stuff is in suitcases. I’m a little OCD that way. You let me help you with this, I’ll let you help me make dinner. Deal?”

Lennon shook his head and reached for his phantom limb. “Fine. But no sniffing my underwear.”

Georgia saluted. “No sniffing, sir.”

“I suddenly wish I had paid a little more attention to the way I packed,” Lennon said, grabbing the first of three suitcases off the luggage cart. It turned her stomach to see him wince, but he needed to be allowed his pride. It had been sixteen days since his surgery, so the chances of his tearing something were slim, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

He flipped it onto the floor and opened it. A sea of black clothes were all thrown in together, and while she’d love to say they smelled like he did now, clean and sharp from his shower at the hospital, they didn’t.

Lennon laughed. “Is there laundry in the building?”

Georgia joined in, loving the way his eyes lit up. “One better—there’s a washing machine and dryer stacked in that double-door closet next to the bathroom. I put some detergent and fabric softener on the shelf next to it.”

“I’ll take care of this,” he said as he closed the suitcase and wheeled it down the hallway.

Certain he didn’t want her watching, she lifted the next suitcase off the cart and put it on the floor. Inside were clean clothes. “If I don’t sniff them,” she shouted, “can I put your clean clothes away?”

When she didn’t hear a response, she walked forward a little until she could see down the hallway. Lennon had slid down the wall and was sitting on the floor, his head in his hand.

She ran to him. “Are you okay?” she said, crouching in front of him and pressing a hand to his forehead. It was clammy, and his skin gray.

“The pain won’t go away,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s like my arm is still there, but it’s not. It feels like I have a fucking dead arm, like I fell asleep on it and I can’t get it moving again,” he said, circling what was left of his arm as if he could shake the life back into it. “And then I bent forward to pick up some of the clothes and I almost fell over. What the fuck is happening, Gia?”

Tears did fill his eyes now, and she could feel his pain.

“When did you last take your meds?” she asked. “You know you can take them when it hurts.”

“But this isn’t real, this pain, right? It’s phantom pain. It doesn’t exist. No fucking pill fixes that, right?” he snapped.

“No pill fixes what’s happened, Lennon. But painkillers interfere with the messages to the brain that you are in pain, real and imaginary. They’ll give you some relief. Let me go get them for you.”

He nodded his head once, which was all she needed to hurry down the hallway and grab two pills and a glass of water. When she returned, he was exactly where she’d left him. Quickly, he tossed the pills into his mouth and took a few gulps of water.

She placed her hand on his knee. Even if he didn’t realize it, he needed comfort. “As for almost falling over, your center of gravity has changed. Think about it: the portion of your arm that was removed had been four to six pounds. Your body is used to being balanced, and now it’s not. You’re going to have moments like that while your body adjusts. I assumed your therapist in the hospital explained this.”

Lennon placed his hand over the top of hers. “Thank you, Gia. For this,” he said, gesturing around the apartment with his eyes, “and for this,” he said, looking down at their joined hands.

“Let me get you onto the couch,” she said, guessing he was done with bed after all the time he’d spent in one at the hospital. “Then I’ll start the laundry, do a little unpacking for you, and make dinner for us. Okay?” She stood and offered Lennon her hand.

He took it and let her lead the way to the living room. They didn’t speak as she propped pillows behind his head, covered him in a blanket, and passed him the television remote.

But as she was about to leave him to get to the laundry, he reached for her hand, his fingers linked with hers. “I can hire someone to do all this,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to do it.” His eyes were intently focused on her as he pulled her hand to his lips. It was too gentle, too tender, to be a simple gesture of friendship, and she felt her cheeks heat.

“I know. But I want to. Let me be here for you. Please, Lennon.”

* * *

I called the hospital and they said you’d been released. Where the fuck are you?

Lennon scrolled up the screenful of messages from Elliott. It wasn’t a surprise that he was the one blowing up Lennon’s phone. He’d always been the mom of the group, all caring and shit. As much as it bothered Lennon, as much as he wanted to hate it, it meant the world. But just as with all the other messages from the rest of the band, accepting Elliott’s care would open him to something he couldn’t bear. Something that always came, eventually—rejection.

Elliott’s mom tendencies made him think about the abject lack of attention he’d received from his own mother—though he wished they didn’t. When Lennon was born, she’d been a sixteen-year-old who already had a two-year-old baby girl with whom she liked to play dress-up. She’d had no use for a baby boy from a different father. A young girl herself, too naïve to realize that a child deprived of attentive loving care would have life-long attachment issues—something that had taken him nearly thirty years to learn—she’d left him alone in his crib. All day. Every day. She’d take Jennifer out to the park and just leave him there. Even when he was too big to straighten out his legs.

He’d remembered the shock on the social worker’s face when the doctor had explained why his legs didn’t work as they should. It had taken hours of physical therapy to put everything right. He moved his bandaged arm and shivered at the thought of all the therapy he was supposed to be doing now. For a moment, he felt a flicker of guilt. He wanted to do better for Georgia. She’d be disappointed in him if he didn’t.

But, fuck, he’d been disappointing people his whole life. It had taken psychologists until he was twelve to figure out why no foster parents would keep him. Having been deprived of human interaction as a young child, he’d failed to learn the basics of human relationships. He’d never learned how to relate. Therapists had explained it, intellectually he knew it, but he didn’t know how to fix it emotionally.

His phone rang, Elliott’s face filling the screen. Lennon stared at it until it finished ringing. For a moment, just a moment, his stomach dropped at the thought of never seeing Elliott again. Of never staying up until four in the morning trying to find the right combination for a song, of never laughing at the way the guy’s hair was up one minute and down the next. But those weren’t enough to fill the long periods of darkness or take away from the nightmares about being left alone in his crib, sodden with his own piss and shit.

I’m worried sick about you. Just fucking text me back you asshole. An X and I’ll come get you or, fuck, even an eggplant emoji. Anything.

He shook his head and decided to take a picture of himself flicking the bird. He flicked his phone to camera, but then he realized he couldn’t hold it and make the hand gesture.

“FUCK!” Though he was wearing only a pair of shorts, he threw open the balcony doors and embraced the cold April wind. Lennon shivered, his thoughts and the cruel wind snapping at his skin. His hair whipped the edges of his face.

The view did nothing for him, although there was irony in the fact he was standing on what was really the thirteenth floor—though the building called it the fourteenth to avoid the association of the “bad luck” number. If he were any fucking unluckier, lightning would hit him where he stood before a tornado touched down on his balcony and threw him out into Central Park.

He rubbed his hand across his face and along the beard he’d grown since the day of surgery. God, he was fucking tired. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours despite his best efforts to numb everything with painkillers and alcohol. All he had to show for it was a hangover barely kept at bay by pain meds.

The ground was cold beneath his feet, but he stood and took a deep breath of air. The sky was gray, oppressive. Everything was too close.

Lennon took a step closer to the edge of the balcony and looked down toward the ground. It seemed simple enough to lean forward.

The buzzer to the condo sounded and was swiftly followed by loud knocking. Lennon stepped back from the edge and took a deep breath. His hair flew in front of his face. What the fuck was he doing?

He wandered back to the door and opened it wide. Georgia stood in the hallway, an oversized pink sweater slipping off her shoulder as she juggled a plastic bag and a box. That thick mane of hair was up in a messy bun and tested his restraint. What would it take to slip out a couple of the pins keeping it there and let it tumble down? Her face was stripped clean of the light makeup she usually wore, her cheeks scrubbed pink as if she’d just gotten out of the shower.

The idea of that curvaceous frame of hers under hot water in a steamy shower made his dick twitch, something that hadn’t happened since the surgery. Fuck, at least that part of him still worked. Her eyes scanned down his chest, and he was suddenly grateful he’d decided to forgo the T-shirt. The way she quickly glanced back up to his eyes and blushed did nothing to ease the movement in his shorts.

The dark thoughts that had clouded his mind the last forty-eight hours seemed to disappear, like she was a living breathing ray of fucking sunshine.

“Hey, I’m here to change your dressing if now is a good time,” she said as she breezed past him and dumped the box on the counter.

“Come on in, why don’t you?” Lennon said. He closed the door as her scent hit his nose. Something like tangerine, which made him want to lean in and press his lips against the soft skin of her neck and savor her.

Georgia looked around the kitchen, where dirty dishes were stacked on the counter. He’d regressed to those first couple of years out of the home, when he’d rebelled. When Nik would kick his ass for being such a dirtbag. He only prayed she wouldn’t look inside the—

“You didn’t bother to order groceries,” she said, poking around in his fridge. When she closed the door and looked back at him, he couldn’t read her expression. He’d thought she’d be disgusted, or feel sorry for him, but her words were more of a statement than a question.

“Obviously, not.” He drummed his fingers on the counter top. He felt . . . fuck, he felt nervous around her. He wanted to believe it was the thought of having the dressing changed, but deep down inside, in the quiet spaces, he knew it was something else . . . something more.

“I’m sorry. None of my business,” she said as she grabbed a packet and ripped it open. She pulled a pair of sterile gloves from it and pulled them on.

Shit, now he was getting turned on by her pulling on latex. Goddamn. His chest tightened in direct correlation with his dick hardening. He didn’t want his dressing changed. Was totally fed up of being poked at. But he wanted her hands on him, and if this was the only way he could make that happen, he’d get over it.

She stepped up close to him and began to unravel the elastic compression bandage. “Okay, there is no polite way to say this, so I’m going to step our friendship up by telling you that you smell.”

Suddenly, he felt the heat of embarrassment creep up his face. Personal hygiene hadn’t been a priority when he’d been laid out on the sofa watching crap daytime TV.

“Sorry.” He looked down at the floor. What else was there to add? That he’d been relying on a robe to dry himself off and that it was a pain in the ass? That washing his hair was a royal pain in the ass, too?

Georgia stepped back. “Lennon. Look at me.”

He didn’t want to. Didn’t want her to see who he really was, what he was becoming. But he did, because it was Georgia doing the asking.

“I’m a surgeon. What you have gone through is a life-changing event. Just the surgical aspect of it, even if you ignore the emotional elements. Standing here with me, right now, two weeks after it happened is Herculean. You don’t have to pretend it’s easy with me. Because I know it’s not.”

Lennon took a deep breath. His head was a mess. A shower would do him good. Otherwise he was going to do something incredibly stupid, like lean forward and kiss those perfectly pouty lips of hers. He reached for her hip and pulled her closer.

“Showering sucks. My hair is too fucking long and needs cutting. I need to shave but the phantom pain makes me shake sometimes, and I’m worried I’m going to cut my own throat.” The only time he’d attempted shaving, it had occurred to him that throat-cutting might not be such a bad idea. Except he couldn’t guarantee success with it, and then everyone would be on to him. “My clothes are hard to put on, and when I get them on, they feel weird. And I sound like a fucking whiny seven-year-old.”

“No, you don’t. I’m going to help you. I can cut your hair. I’ll even shave your face if you trust me. For the showering, though, you’re on your own.”

The words were definitive, but he couldn’t help it if his mind wondered what it would be like to shower with her. To feel her skin naked and wet against his.

As she worked on removing his dressing, he never took his eyes off her. Even when it burned as she removed the part of the dressing that was stuck to his skin.

When she was done, he took her hand. “Thank you,” he said quietly. It didn’t feel like anywhere near enough.

“You’re welcome,” she replied, her eyes on him, just how he was coming to like them.

As he walked to the bathroom, he heard her phone buzz and her muttered curse. One day he was going to throw that damn thing over his balcony. He closed the door and studied himself in the mirror, forced himself to look at what the surgeon had referred to as his surgical site. For days, he’d struggled with his own image, glancing away as quickly as he could when he caught sight of his own reflection. He needed to get used to it. It was going to define him . . . unless you stop it.

He didn’t even know what that meant. How could he stop being defined by what had happened to him? He’d done that his whole life.

His skin looked sallow. Pain, lack of sunlight, zero sleep. He ran his palm across his face.

His hair was a ratty mess, hard to comb. As much as he liked it long, it really needed to be short. For now. Maybe it would be easier if she cut half of it off before he showered.

Lennon opened the door and wandered back into the living room but paused when he saw Georgia curled up asleep on the sofa, her phone still in her palm. On the balls of his feet, he tip-toed over to her, removed the phone from her grip and turned it to silent.

Georgia muttered words of complaint but never opened her eyes.

He gently brushed her hair off her face, but she didn’t move again. Her skin was warm, soft beneath his fingers. He reached behind her and pulled the blanket down over her. It was a little messy because it was hard to straighten it with only one hand without waking her.

And he didn’t want to do that.

I’m going to help you. That’s what she’d said to him.

“Yeah, well, Doctor Starr, I’m going to help you too,” he whispered before pressing his lips to her forehead.